


Crawling Back

by imbrem_aureum



Series: Daring Donations [3]
Category: Monty Python's Flying Circus
Genre: Doctor/Patient, Hospitals, Jealousy, M/M, Marking, Possessive Behavior, Public Claiming, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Urinating on Someone, Urination, Watersports, public urination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:47:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29860389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imbrem_aureum/pseuds/imbrem_aureum
Summary: “Afternoon, Doctor,” he says, too casual, too easy. “Fancy seeing you here.” He’s a loose line, and he’s got Samson wriggling on his hook, ready to reel in.
Relationships: Mr. Grimshaw/Dr. Samson
Series: Daring Donations [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2195259
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	Crawling Back

When a gentleman joins the queue with dark, slicked-back hair, Samson’s stomach somersaults. Only… it isn’t who he thought it was, who he’d hoped it was. 

It’s been almost a fortnight since he last saw Grimshaw. In that time, any man of his stature has had Samson doing a double take. The tally sheet stick men have stopped too, mostly; Samson’s watching the door, not doodling.

He almost doesn’t believe his eyes when Grimshaw does appear. It’s a relief, even if his chest tightens at the sight of him. Only, it’s no relief at all to watch him pass the donor queue, pass Samson—without giving him so much as a second glance—and walk through to… he wishes he knew where. His placement here started six months ago, and he still doesn’t know his way around the hospital completely. He should really get on that.

It’s no problem leaving the queue for five minutes. They’re past the lunch rush, when people drop in for the free apple juice and biscuits more than from a sense of benevolence. Samson slips a mental bookmark in the slow-moving queue, so he’ll know how many bodies to mark down upon his imminent return. 

Tracking Grimshaw brings him to a crossroads. Left, gynaecology. Right, ENT. Onward… well, the sign says A&E, but he could’ve sworn it was the other way. He spots Grimshaw passing through the set of doors up ahead and trots after him. A woman on crutches asks for directions. He pretends he doesn’t hear her. 

Grimshaw doesn’t enter A&E’s waiting room. He hovers outside the doors leading to it, triage nurses and on-call doctors rushing about around him. This part of the hospital is nothing like Samson’s. Must be nice having something to do. 

Disguising himself behind a conveniently large fern, Samson observes. 

“Excuse me?” 

“Um, Doctor? Could I…?”

“I don’t suppose I could . . . Oh, sorry.”

He’s trying to get a doctor’s attention. Any doctor it seems. Something like heartburn flares in Samson’s chest. Does Grimshaw go to anyone who’ll listen? How many of the medical profession fall for this? 

It’s slim pickings here. No one has time for him. None of the senior doctors are agreeable to having their arms grabbed or their sleeves tugged. Grimshaw hasn’t managed a whisper in one ear yet. Does that make Samson a pushover? 

It makes him angry, certainly. 

Grimshaw crosses to the other side of the corridor, pushing his back against one of the notice boards. He turns to Samson then, looks him straight in the eye and gives him a once over that leaves him feeling two feet tall. He knew Samson was looking then, knew he was hot on his trail. 

What is this part of Grimshaw’s act? Is it his way of announcing that he’s lost interest, a show of his moving on? Samson meets his gaze and swallows his resentment. He almost snaps his pencil in his fist.

He’s about to turn on his heels and march back to the blood bank when Grimshaw’s on the move again. This time, he acknowledges Samson with a nod as he passes, so small it’s almost unnoticeable. That makes Samson angrier than if he’d ignored him. 

The path he takes through the hospital is winding. Every turn or so, he checks over his shoulder to make sure Samson’s still following. He is. Course he is.

Outside Dietetics, Grimshaw finds someone willing to stop and talk. By talk, that means have him whisper into their ear. The doctor seems a friendly chap, laughs as though he’s not quite understanding the man’s request. Samson’s too far away to hear what he’s whispering, but he doesn’t need to. Grimshaw’s got those pleading eyes, holds up two fingers like he had when demonstrating the size of the pot the day they met. 

“No, sir. I’m sorry. If you don’t have an appointment, I can’t help you. Now if you don’t mind, I have patients to attend to.” 

Grimshaw’s left standing on his own, Samson staring at him from the middle of the corridor, still making no attempt to talk to him. Their eyes meet for a long while. A standoff. 

What is he playing at, going to these other doctors? Did what they do… mean nothing? 

Neither does more than stare. Samson wants to say something, he really does, but what does one say in a situation like this? He can’t even read the other man’s face to get a clue as to what he’s feeling; he simply doesn’t know him well enough.

“Good afternoon, Doctor,” Grimshaw says dismissively, giving Samson a slight bow like he’s surrendering their fight of eye-contact alone. His voice is flat, bereft of the desperation that usually vibrates from his every cell. He turns and walks away.

This time, Grimshaw doesn’t stop at any hospital departments. He walks straight out the front door, and Samson follows him all the way to the car park. 

They pass the ticket machines. Grimshaw snakes through parked cars, checking over his shoulder every few spaces. Samson’s still with him. It’s quiet out here, cold too. The cars thin out the further they get from the entrance. Some dry leaves and an old crisp packet lift into a spiral, the chill wind dragging them from the tarmac.

Samson has no idea why he’s following Grimshaw, why he’s left his post for what must be ten minutes by now at least. It could cost him his position, but he needs to know what this insidious little man is playing at. He’s treating the hospital like a game, testing Samson’s patience and generosity, and heading into an area behind the hospital Samson knows is a dead end—it’s bins, the backsides of air conditioning units, and a locked door to the electrical room covered in warning stickers.

“Right,” Samson snaps, turning the corner to find Grimshaw waiting, back against the brick. “What’s going on here?”

The drone of the units is loud, but it doesn’t drown Grimshaw out. “Afternoon, Doctor,” he says, too casual, too easy. “Fancy seeing you here.” He’s a loose line, and he’s got Samson wriggling on his hook, ready to reel in.

When they’re this close, Samson towers over him. “What was that, in there?”

“Well,” he says, tongue darting out to wet his lips. He gives Samson another once over that, in this setting, makes Samson feel dirty. It’s a look he’s given him before, one barely concealing his excitement over not who Samson is, but what he does. “I’ve got to keep my options open, haven’t I? If I didn’t come back here, I’d never see you.”

“And wouldn’t that be a shame,” Samson snaps, regretting it immediately. Of all their imagined conversations since he last lay eyes on him, none of them played out like this.

“I want you to ask me,” Grimshaw says. He lifts his hand and goes to press it to Samson’s chest, stops himself, then slides it back into his coat pocket. 

“Ask you what?”

“That’s up to you, isn’t it?” He swallows, holds eye contact a little too long. “Maybe you’ve got an appointment you’re eager to book with me. Maybe you want to follow-up on that last… treatment you gave me.” 

Samson flattens his palm to the wall beside Grimshaw’s head, boxing him in. “I think you’re confusing the roles of doctor and patient here, Mr Grimshaw.” 

“Eric,” he says. “My name’s Eric.” 

Samson simply stares at him. The name is sweet. It suits him. Yet, knowing it extends a strange sort of intimacy between them that he hadn’t expected to want. Was it better when he didn’t know, when Eric Grimshaw was a mere thorn in his side who’d scarper after a fifteen-minute examination?

“Well then,” Grimshaw says, looking up at Samson with those delicate baby blues. “If you don’t want to help me out here, I suppose I should start looking for a doctor who will.” 

“I don’t want you speaking to any doctor besides me.” He leans in close so Grimshaw can hear his lowered voice over the fans. 

“I can’t promise—”

“Why not?”

Grimshaw inhales slow, eyes locked on Samson’s lips. His head tilts, thoughtful. He slides a finger into Samson’s beltloop. “I’m not sure,” he says, and it’s maddening. As he pulls Samson’s hips forward with that hooked finger, he whispers against his mouth, “I don’t think you’ve made your position clear on our specific doctor-patient relationship.”

Right. That’s it. Samson’s not playing anymore. 

Grabbing Grimshaw’s wrist, he turns him forcefully, shoving his chest against the brick. He isn’t gentle, but owing to the man’s groan that’s all pleasure and no pain, he doesn’t mind at all.

“You come to me only,” Samson demands, throwing the clipboard clattering down and scrambling at his own fly. “Do you understand?”

“Not sure,” Grimshaw mutters. He fans his fingers against the brick, palms flat, standing where he’s been placed without argument. “You’ll have to explain.” 

Oh, he’s going to. He’s going to make it crystal clear who Grimshaw goes to from now on, what the score is between them. 

His cock’s out, in the cold and in his hand, and Lord above he has no idea what’s possessing him to do this. But that’s Grimshaw all over, isn’t it? He brings something carnal out of him, something he didn’t know existed and now can’t seem to send back where it came from. Seeing him flaunt himself before those other doctors flicked a primal switch in his psyche, fixed his mind to this one thing. Grimshaw is his, and this’ll prove it in the only way that feels right.

It’s strange, relieving himself in daylight and outside, but the flow comes remarkably easy, hits the back of Grimshaw’s thigh and has the man groaning like he’s been run through with a lancet. Samson stands closer, chest almost touching the other man’s back as he directs the hot stream against his trousers. The fabric soaks dark, and Grimshaw positively trembles. 

“I don’t want another doctor touching you,” Samson says, a low growl in the other man’s ear. He keeps pissing on him, claiming him, treating him like some inanimate object on the edge of a territory now marked as his. 

“W-why not?”

The man is insatiable. Samson bends and bites the back of his neck, prompting another groan through Grimshaw’s teeth as he takes what he’s given. His piss is hot, wisps of steam rising from it in the chill air. It’s running down the back of Grimshaw’s leg, streaming, a puddle spreading around his feet. The sound of it gushing out reminds him of that first time, Grimshaw’s piss hitting glass as Samson coaxed more from him.

Empty, Samson presses himself flush to Grimshaw’s back, pinning him to the brick. He hasn’t been able to scrub this man from his thoughts and no longer wants to. Fucking him over that exam bench only gave him a taste of what he wants to do to him, with him. He can say it now. 

“I’m open to home visits,” Samson says, teeth clenched against Grimshaw’s nape. He resists biting down again, presses his lips to the mark he’s left there instead.

Grimshaw’s panting, his ribcage lifting off the wall as he inhales, pressing back against Samson’s chest. “If you think I need another consultation.”

“I do.” 

There’s something about the smell of urine that has Samson’s cock filling where it’s tucked away. The tang of it in the air is something he uniquely associates with being inappropriate with this man, this tiny, addictive man whose hand is snaking back to take his. He’d do anything to slide his wet trousers down and take him right here against the wall, but he’s on duty. He must get back.

“Where can I find you?” he asks, linking his fingers with Grimshaw’s for a moment before they inevitably part again.

“My address is on record, Doctor. You can look me up, can’t you?”

If he pulls a favour with one of the nurses he can. 

“I’ll find you.”

With that, he picks up his clipboard and gets back to work.


End file.
